Doors
by MLaw
Summary: There are many doors through which U.N.C.L.E. agents must pass... originally posted for the PicFic Tuesday prompt, Live Journal. The cover pic of a heavy wooden cell door was the prompt. pre-saga


There was a loud clap of thunder, and for a second the naked incandescent bulb hanging overhead flickered as a rather intense storm raged outside.

The din caused by it would at least offer some cover for the man dressed in a green uniform and wearing a black beret as he crept down a long corridor filled with heavy wooden doors. He reached for a ring of antiquated keys conveniently hung on a nail beside the one of them.

That was a rarity, not having to search for keys or burn open a lock and he put it to just being part of his famous luck.

After trying the keys one by one, the cell door opened with slightly ominous moan and he quickly stepped inside, hoping his good fortune would was still intact.

It was dark inside, and as the lightning flashed again, followed by a long low rumble, he as able to discern a figure lying huddled in the lower portion of a crudely constructed bunk bed.

"Mark?" He whispered to the still form.

The Brit rolled over, revealing his swollen and battered face.

"Can you walk?"

"Yes but just don't ask me to chew anything," Slate groaned as he rolled over, getting slowly to his feet.

"Any clue where our partners are?"Solo asked.

"Not far mate, I'm presuming since I could hear their screams coming from outside my cell, they're not far off. I have a bad feeling from what I heard, they got it far worse than I did."

Napoleon opened the cell door, checking the corridor before exiting, this time the moan of the hinge was masked by another crack of thunder.

"Come on, let's go find them before anything else happens," he beckoned Mark to follow him.

"This way?" He mouthed, to which Slate nodded an affirmative.

He joined the American, and together they checked a number of cells finding them empty.

"By the way, guv, how did you find me?" Mark whispered.

"A little bird told me," Napoleon smiled. "Where do you think the uniform came from?"

"Told you about me but not them, I take it."

"He passed out before he could finish..."

The two agents moved cautiously, moving from door to door, finding them all unlocked. When they reached the last door, Solo called out his partners name hoping against hope he was there, along with Slate's partner.

"Illya?".

"In here," answered April Dancer. Her voice was muffled behind the door.

Luck seemed to be abandoning the American as none of the keys fit this particular lock. Not to be deterred, Solo quickly attached a short fuse to it, and after adjusting the crown on his wristwatch, there was a hiss, a puff of smoke and a moment later he grabbed the handle, opening up the heavy wooden door.

There was low wattage light shining, casting eerie shadows on the two figures there, huddled on the floor.

"April luv?" Mark called softly. He saw his beautiful auburn-haired partner sitting there, cradling Illya's head in her arms. She was pretty beat up, with several large bruises blossoming on her face but the Russian looked worse.

"I'm okay Mark, but he isn't. He needs a doctor."

Kuryakins face was swollen and bloody, and as they moved him from Aprils arms, he came to, letting them know he was in a lot of pain.

"Careful darlings, I'm pretty sure his ribs are broken, his arm too. Those horrid men just kept beating him. I told them we didn't have what they wanted….some microchip. They didn't care. I think they just took joy in," she hesitated," well what they did."

Mark wrapped his arms around his partner, offering her a bit of comfort.

"It's all right luv, we'll take care of these animals, and I thought the Swiss were famous for their neutrality."

"I think that will be a difficult promise to keep," a deep, resonant voice spoke, standing in the open cell door.

It was Bastia Montavan, the head of the satrap. "Now hands up all of you...well not you Mr. Kuryakin," he smiled amusedly, pointed his luger at the agents, "The rest of you, turn around slowly."

Napoleon had his Walther in his hand, out of Montavan's view and as the American started to raise his arms, he turned with blinding speed.

"Happy to oblige," he said coldly, darting the man.

Montavan fell to the cell floor with a dull thud, perfectly timed with a thunderclap that was so violent, the building seemed to shake.

"Nice work,"Illya mumbled as Mark and April got him to his feet.

"All in a days rescue sir. Now let's get out of here before any more of Montavan's cockroaches show up." Napoleon led the way out the door, helping Slate support the Russian between the two of them. April followed, holding her partners gun in her hands, covering their escape.

"Does that mean we send in exterminator?" Illya lifted his head, trying not to laugh as it hurt his side.

"Hush darling, don't you worry your pretty blond head, this place is toast...especially after what they did to you."

"Us," Illya corrected her, barely speaking in a whisper, though not saying anything specifically. He knew what had happened, what they'd done to her, and if it were found out, her career as a field agent would most likely end.

There were those in the organization who believed that women were too delicate for field work. Their gender made them susceptible to such abuses…The covert world was an ugly place and they simply didn't belong there. Illya disagreed, as men too were susceptible to the same abuses. There should not be a double standard.

He found April Dancer more than competent, and would protect her as if she were his partner.

April flashed him a pleading look.

"U menya yest' spinu . Ne volnuytes'_ I have your back. Do not worry."

Solo looked at him with a quizzical expression, wondering why Illya felt it necessary to speak to her in Russian. He knew he'd taken her under his wing and was helping her perfect her use of the language but thought it strange at the moment.

_"Tovarisch?_"

Illya gave the American a cold hard stare. "It is between me and April," he answered before conveniently passing out.

Napoleon knew it wouldn't be worth pursuing. Illya Kuryakin could close up tighter than a clam at the snap of a finger. April, now she was another story, unless his partner had been giving her 'stubborn' lessons.

A surprisingly short time later the satrap was secured, as Montavan apparently had a only skeleton staff there. It looked as if he were preparing to abandon the location.

The storm had run its course. The Swiss skies were clear as was the moutain air, when the mecivac helicopter arrived, along with a cleanup team on board an Agusta-Bell chopper.

The injurged agents were taken to an U.N.C.L.E. medical facility in Zurich and there they recuperated from their injuries.

April was forced to submit to a gynecological exam as part of her physical and the evidence was now officially on paper. Once her records were submitted to Waverly, she knew her career would be over, at least in the field.

It was late in the evening when Kuryakin crept from his room; his strength had returned and had nothing more to deal with but wrapped ribs and a cast on his left arm. The bruises and usual pain accompanying them were something he was accustomed to, and he ignored them.

Zurich medical was small, and the records were kept in the attending physician's office, and given it was a secure facility, the door wasn't locked. For a moment he found that disconcerting but conveniently helpful to his personal mission.

He opened the file cabinet, locating Dancers records and pulled them; luckily the triplicate copies were there.

Located on the office desk was a small stack of blank forms and a typwriter. Illya plucked one and inserted it into the roller, and with one hand he typed a new report, removing all information that would be damning to April.

He put the new paperwork into her file, hid the old one inside his pajama top and disappeared out the door, returning to his room just in time for the evening meds being delivered.

"You look a little flushed Mr. Kuryakin," the night nurse said. She took his pulse, finding it racing. "Hmm I may have to call the doctor, your heart rate is a bit fast. How do you feel?"

Illya called upon every lesson he'd learned from his libidnous partner, and fluttering his intense blue eyes at the nurse; he flirted with her and opened a door that he hoped would distract her from the temporary racing of his heart.

"Das ist, weil ich mich in der Gegenwart von einer wirklich schönen Frau_hat is because I am in the presence of a truly beautiful woman," he smiled at her, speaking German.

"Ach du meine Gute, Herr Kuryakin_ oh my goodness, Mr. Kuryakin," she blushed.

"It is the honest truth, and I had to say so as well as thank you for taking good care of me. I wonder how many patients do not take the time to do so?"

"You're so welcome," she smiled now; her own heart racing this time. She looked at his chart. "I see you're to be discharged tomorrow….maybe we could get together for a drink or some such?"

"Sadly, I must return to New York, duty calls," he surrepticiously closed the door on her.

The nurse left the room, sighing that she'd drawn the attention of the handsome Russian agent; she was in such a daze that she hadn't noticed he palmed the pain pills, as well as the piece of paper barely visible beneath his pajama top...

_"Ne volnuytes' aprelya . U menya yest' spinu , vsegda_ do not worry April. I have your back, always,_" he whispered.

It was one of the few doors he would keep open, just as he did for Napoleon. The rest, he kept under lock and key within his Russian heart and soul.


End file.
